Yorkers Poems | Examples

Why New Z Yorkers Talk

What Can't Functions

Divert
Divert to 
Diversion bill of assembly program text
Fault line
At fault line
At fault line data structure 
Funding language of global variables 

In hedgemony or

Supplemental grant writing policy

Development Funding and Policy
The importance of information and capability building with particular 
reference to Tonga
Russell C. Taylor
September 2018
Thesis Submitted for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy from the 
National Centre for Research on Europe at the University of Canterbury

Supply and Demand economics

Thousand Oaks California possibilities 


Exam failure in definition of policy physics theory and laws

Up on the Top

Sat on the ferryboat, up on the top,
Soaking the sun and the breeze.
Seeing the city a different way,
Like a tourist, there’s so much to please.

Cool buildings to spot and New Yorkers about,
On foot or on bikes or on skates,
With gardens and trees, dogs on leashes, as well
As the seagulls aloft with their mates.

The palpable buzz of a sweet sunny day
As the ferry skips over the waves
Casts a magical spell on the riders, which I
Would imagine most everyone craves.

Standing in Line during the holidays

When the Language Merge**

I walked into Bobby Department Store and yelled, “Where are the Jamaicans and Barbadians?” This might sound a little strange to most people; however, it’s that time of year when all the languages and dialects merge, accompanied by the authentic accents from their respective places. Plus, there's always a bit of rudeness as people wait in long lines. Yet, amidst it all, the joy of Christmas still shines through in their voices. 

Christmas is that one time of year when you can be happy without needing a reason. I could hear conversations like, “I want to mail this barrel by next week, but I know they won’t get it before next year.” As an outsider eavesdropping on these conversations, I sometimes think, “What is this barrel they are talking about? A barrel of rum? A barrel of Jack Daniel’s? A barrel of monkeys? What barrel?” 

Yes, Bubba! That barrel is filled with gifts and food for their families on the Island of Brim. All I’d like to add is that I’m reminded that while New Yorkers say “standing online,” the rest of the English-speaking world says “standing in line.” - Jeffrey Stein Garten.

Let the Streets Flow with Blood

     Advocate of rent control and $30 minimum wage
     Free public transportation! Zohran Mamdani’s a media-appointed Sage

         For all illegal immigrants, full privileges and rights
         Defund the police, let NYC’s streets flow with blood every night

     O, how excited New Yorkers are about this fresh-faced progressive
     They won’t dare complain about everything there will be less of

Lunch on Third Avenue

Had lunch with a friend
And we sat in the shade
In a sidewalk arrangement
The restaurant made.

I live on the east side
And she on the west.
We meet to catch up 
At each other’s request.

The corner was busy
And traffic zipped by.
With sirens and buses,
I’m not gonna lie,

The noisiness level
Was blaring and loud,
Plus bulldozers rolled
As pedestrians cowed.

Construction just added
More rat-a-tat-tats,
With shouts from the workers
In safety-type hats.

My friend and I chatted,
Our voices both raised,
Delighted to be there,
New Yorkers unfazed.

A Life in T-Shirts

Going through a closet,
I was quite surprised to find
Several shopping bags of t-shirts
That my son had left behind.

While looking at them, one by one,
I realized they portrayed
His entire growing up, through college,
Starting in first grade.

The school shirts featured P.S. 6,
Then Wagner Junior High,
With a special few from Stuyvesant,
Where high school years flew by.

Another group had characters
From movies or TV – 
Pee Wee Herman, Austin Powers
And the Simpsons’ family tree.

There was Beavis, there was Butthead
And the South Park kids, as well
As World Series shirts and Yankees;
(We’re New Yorkers, you can tell).

Favor shirts from his Bar Mitzvah
Nestled near the travel trove – 
Shirts from Scotland and from Israel,
Plus some places where we drove.

Then the final category,
From his favorite billiards hall,
Where the hours spent resulted
In those plaques upon his wall.

As a grown-up and a parent,
His collection’s surely grown,
But I love these sweet reminders
Of his younger self I’ve known.

no answer no response 2

17



I know, that there are no answers in cognac or armagnac
In the wine or sacred prayer,
No answers in geometry or trigonometry,
No response in Toronto, or Chicago,
That’s why we write this,

I know that there are no answers in the middle-class,
In the castles of the Loire, or in Pigalle,
In bars or shops, in the shopping crowd
That’s why we go to cinemas
In museums or exhibitions in Landerneau,

I know there is no answer from our neighbors,
No answers from intellectuals,
New Yorkers, or champions,
That’s why we read the poets, That we admire
Rodin or the sunflowers of Van Gogh,

I know that there is no answer in the Brest,
No answer in drugs or diamonds,
That’s why we seek silence,
No answer in solitude or enjoyment,
That’s why we protect bees,
That we travel.

In Memory Of Pale Male

In the heart of Manhattan, where the city thrives,
Lived a hawk named Pale Male, with piercing eyes.
On a grand Fifth Avenue ledge, he made his nest,
A symbol of nature, in the urban crest.
With feathers so light, and a spirit so free,
He soared above skyscrapers, for all to see.
A legend in the park, where he chose to dwell,
His story, a tale New Yorkers would tell.
Through seasons he watched, as the city changed,
From winter’s chill to summer’s range.
With a mate by his side, and chicks to rear,
He brought a touch of wild, to the city’s veneer.
For over three decades, he graced the sky,
A beacon of hope, for every passerby.
Though he’s now gone, his legacy remains,
In the hearts of those, who remember his reign.
On May 16, 2023, he took his final flight,
Leaving behind memories, shining bright.
So here’s to Pale Male, the hawk so grand,
Who made his mark, on this bustling land.
May his spirit soar, in the skies above,
A testament to nature, and a symbol of love.

Lou And Doug

“Politics is a contact sport” —Steve Chabot
It ain't over 'till it's over   —Yogi Berra

Loug And Doug

Pleasant gentlemen both, broad shouldered and tall
Good sports who respect the umpire's call
Playing the game with pride and joy
Sincerely humble, never coy
Staunch New Yorkers with their eyes on the ball

The End of an Era

My bathroom has a radio
Connected to the switch
That controls the light, so people think
That there’s some kind of glitch.

But whoever needs to use it
Hears the weather and the news
And the traffic and the sports
And some instructive interviews.

Now those voices, so familiar,
Will be missing since I’ve learned
That the station, CBS-AM’s
About to be adjourned.

Also called News 88, it’s been,
For close to 60 years,
Keeping all New Yorkers up to date
With news as it appears.

I know change is bound to happen
But I will not have a clue
About all the latest news if I
Don’t hear it in the loo!

India T20 Champions

In the Caribbean's embrace, where legends roam,
India's cricket soared to claim their home.
Eleven years in the shadows, a relentless chase,
Now crowned in Barbados, with finesse and grace.

Rohit Sharma's bat, a master's touch,
Surya Kumar Yadav, with style so much.
Virat Kohli's passion, a captain's flame,
Rishabh Pant's audacity, forever the game.

Hardik Pandya's power, unleashed and bold,
Jasprit Bumrah's Yorkers, tales untold.
Arshdeep's guile, Kuldeep's spins spun,
Ravindra Jadeja's brilliance, under the sun.

Axar Patel's artistry, Siraj's fervent might,
Sanju Samson's elegance, pure delight.
Together they forged, a team so grand,
In Barbados' sands, victory's hand in hand.

Cheers echoed in Bridgetown, hearts did swell,
As India's anthem rang, their triumph to tell.
In the T20 realm, a new chapter begun,
Legends etched in glory, under the Caribbean sun.

Tupac'N Puerto Rican

Written By:  D. Collins 5/22/24



 My Boom-Box played this beautiful collab.
 Two blood brothers rapping like we never had.
 Talent is talent, and it ain't my fault.
They mastered the 187 on an undercover cop.



An NWA remix with a Puerto Rican twist.
A touch of Heavy D. with a dot that doesn't miss.
They're native New Yorkers, so you know they spit fast.
The way they pass the baton will knock you on your ass.



Spitting it Ill-Na-Na with a Puerto Rican roll.
If you're not listening, then you don't know.
They were rapping extravagant in front of our nose.
That remix of 187 with Big Pun and Fat Joe.

The Schock Od An Outsider

New Yorkers, in general, are very notorious 
for walking way too fast, not moderately:
it's seen as an unpleasant remark;
tourists keep thinking to themselves,
" They're funny! " It's a stereotype they mock,
" Do New Yorkers ever rush to Central Park? "

An outsider asked a stern policeman,
" Why is everybody running? "
" Is the  President coming? "
And the cop stared at him saying,
" You are an outsider, not so lean,
catch up to the marathon race:
they are rushing for the train:
they are going to their working place! " 
And the shocked red-neck with a freckled, 
peachy, round face grinningly replied,
" I never knew they raced like wild horses
to catch a train; we Southerners take our time,
and stress less, we play songs in our guitars
and drink lots of whiskey, we never walk a mile! "

How could the unamused officer take offence and contain his disdain...
when the naive dude offended every New Yorker? 
His reply was a shock to the poor guy on naproxen,
" Run like them before I throw you in jail, or take the Southern Border! " 

 Note: No pun is intended, it's only to spike up some humor!

cats of Central Avenue

Sixty-seven cats marched on Central Avenue Today
In the rain, for it is April, so hey, hey, hey
They had a mission, wanting kibbles and bits.
Some of them were demanding in spurts and spits.

There was hissing and stomping in yellow boots.
These cats were an army, in strong cahoots.
We New Yorkers were intimidated wildly today.
Cats of Central Avenue are serious and here to stay.

They Pretended Not To See

hiding in plain sight, she wove her way down the avenue
no one flinched or shied away, these were professional commuters
They kept walking, ignoring her like New Yorkers can and do
She wanted to demand they stop, to make them come to a halt

Her mask slipped for a second; no one noticed, or acted like it.
What kind of people live on this planet, she wondered.
It was her calling to find out but they were closed.
How do they reflect emotions? She wondered.

She had been taught to look for smiles. There were none.
She tried to ask a few for directions, they looked past her
No. That’s wrong. They looked through her.
She finally radioed her commandeer to beam her up.

In the middle of Times Square on a Friday afternoon.
None of the commuters flinched; they pretended not to see.
What if it was not a pretense? Oh, my cracker schangdoos!
Maybe they were blind. The entire planet. She put that into her report.

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